Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Somewhere along the line, I passed out.
The only thing I remember is pain. Everything hurt. I faded in and out of consciousness, but forced my eyes open every time. I had to.
The only indication of time passing was the light outside the window.
At some point, Regan had taken me from the bedroom and thrown me on the living room floor.
At least he thought to put me on my side.
Or maybe that was just a lucky toss. The pain from opening my eyes was enough to make me nauseous, and turning my head nearly did me in.
Prying my eyes open, I noted thin beams of sunlight across the TV. If I could just get to my phone…
But I couldn’t even raise my head. I took in a breath, barely managing to get oxygen into my lungs before they seized up.
Stomach acid threatened my throat, but I forced it down.
Blood dried and crusted my skin, and my pants were wet.
Regan was always up with the sun, no matter what, so it was only a matter of time before he came to find me to continue his torture.
Wincing revealed the bruises settling in around my nose and eyes, but I couldn’t feel much more than excruciating pain. I tried to distract myself, settling on a spider crawling up the wall, but the moment it disappeared into the ceiling, my eyes shut once more.
Things got spotty from there, whether from unconsciousness or my brain protecting me, I wasn’t sure.
Regan gave up on feeding me, only offering enough water to keep me alive.
I just had to make it until he passed out.
Then I could get my phone. What I’d do once I got it, I didn’t know, but it was my only chance at survival.
That night, I managed to sit upright with the help of the couch behind me. Every move churned my stomach. My body ached from head to toe.
Regan leaned against the doorway to the kitchen with his morning glass of scotch in his hand and a smile on his face—he was admiring his work.
“If you’re going to kill me, why not just get it over with?”
Gravel laced my tone. I was surprised Regan understood what I said in the first place, much less entertained me with an answer. “If I’m going away anyway, why not enjoy myself?”
He downed the last of his scotch, then decided I was in the prime position for what he wanted.
With a foot to either side of my thighs, he unzipped his jeans.
I knew what I had to do, but it didn’t stop him from jerking my head around.
He gripped my hair so hard I thought he’d scalp me, and wrenched my head so violently that my neck felt close to snapping.
I did exactly what he wanted, but I couldn’t stomach anything more. He barely cleared my lips before I vomited down the front of my shirt.
Regan scoffed and kicked my legs away as he zipped back up. “You never could swallow.”
It didn’t really matter what I said at that point. He was going to kill me no matter what.
“Ask André about that,” I snapped, cleaning my mouth with the back of my hand.
His boot cracked against my jaw, and I spit out a mouthful of blood. Based on a quick inventory with my tongue, the chunk that I felt wasn’t a tooth.
“Smart-mouthed little shit,” he muttered.
I may have put up with a lot from him, but I wasn’t about to sit in soiled clothes—not anymore. I stripped my shirt, and winced through wiggling my jeans off. Regan re-entered the room, tossing a handful of clothes at me.
“Put these on,” he barked. “You’re disgusting.”
I suppose bathing is out of the question.
Though at least clean clothes were better than the alternative.
But as I unfolded them, I felt sick all over again—they were the clothes I’d thrown away at the mall.
The coffee stain from that morning was still there.
As I unfolded the shirt, it kicked up a wave of André’s cologne.
At the memory of his hands on me that day, how happy he was to see me comfortable in my own skin, my mind was made up.
I’d accepted the fact that Regan was determined to kill me, and I was going to let him. It was just easier. I needed the reminder that I had something to fight for.
When it was just me and Dylan, I thought dying would be an easier option. I was nothing but a burden. Constantly having to worry about me, he never got the chance to live a normal life.
But when it came to André, something hit differently. He’d been settled in his life—he was successful, he was rich, and he was happy. Then he changed it all.
For me.
Just six months ago I was nothing more than a hook-up, and now I had a key to his apartment. We had plans for the future. I tried to imagine that he was losing his mind trying to find me, but the self doubt trickled in.
That didn’t matter.
I couldn’t live with the fact that I might not see him again. I had to fight for him.
So from then on, I took the attacks in stride.
Every punch, every kick, every insult—I didn’t let them faze me.
The pain became almost unbearable. Usually, Regan’s fits of rage only lasted a couple hours, but now he acted on repeat.
I’d only close my eyes as he punched me in the face, the stomach, the ribs.
He’d throw me to the ground and kick me until I threw up.
He’d make me clean it, then take me to the bedroom.
Rinse and repeat.
I lost track of the time, of the days. All I wanted to do was fall victim to the unconsciousness, but I fought like hell.
I forced myself to picture André’s face when they did.
I imagined his hands touching me. The night he bathed me at the hotel was my safe space; the tenderness he showed me my light in the darkness.
I was determined to be there again. I wanted André to burst through those doors, scoop me into his arms, and put me in a steaming hot bubble bath—with him behind me.
If I focused hard enough, I could smell his expensive soap. The best thing he did was when he would wet a washcloth, letting the scalding water drip over my chest and shoulders. I loved it when he did that. I could feel the warmth spreading over me.
A jolt of pain brought me out of my fantasy.
My eyes shot open, and I drew in a breath.
My back ached, kidneys protesting the repeated abuse.
I picked my head up and glanced around me.
My vision was blurry. It took quite a few minutes for me to orient myself, only doing so once I saw the bleached spot beneath my head.
How long ago was that?
That particular spot meant that I was outside the bathroom.
As tenderly as possible, I worked my hands underneath me and pushed myself to my knees.
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.
Sitting on my ass, I scooted to the edge of the hall and peeked around the corner.
It was still dark out, which meant that if Regan wasn’t assaulting me, he was asleep—finally.
I glanced over my shoulder, and the bedroom door was shut. It almost seemed too good to be true.
I rose onto my knees but the moment I placed a foot on the floor, shooting pain in my back sent me to my ass again.
I resigned myself to sliding into the bathroom.
I tugged myself in enough to close the door behind me, leaving it cracked so I could see the bedroom.
I watched it carefully, easing my hand behind the cabinet beneath the sink.
The door squealed, and I slowed my pace.
I just needed it open enough to reach my phone.
I fully expected it to be gone, but let out a sigh of relief when my fingertips found the rounded edge of the screen.
Thankfully, it turned on. I was surprised to find that I still had a signal. It wasn’t much, but enough for texts to start pouring in. I put the bright screen face down in my lap. The mattress groaned beneath Regan’s weight, but the door didn’t open.
I waited on edge for the vibrating to stop. It wouldn’t take much for Regan to see the glow of the screen, even with it turned all the way down. It was the only light in the house. I gave up on waiting, opening my text thread with André.
Christ, what was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t call anyone. Figuring out where I was would take too long, and gave me a higher chance of getting caught.
I didn’t have an address, and I didn’t know if André could track my phone. If he could, he wouldn’t be able to for long. The battery was dangerously low.
Suddenly, a notification popped up with a pin on a map. “Share your location with André?”
Yes, that’s exactly what I need. I hit the share option—then the door flew open, crashing into the side of my head. I threw my phone across the room.
My temple caught the handle on the cabinet door, blood gushing down the side of my face.
“What are you doing?”
“I-I had to go. I got dizzy.”
Regan’s hand latched onto my hair, and he pulled me from the room. As he did, a glow from the corner of the shower caught my eye, and I hoped that he hadn’t seen it.
The only thing I remember after that is pain.
Pain from his fist, his foot, pain from…
God, I didn’t even want to say—but everything hurt.
Every time, I slipped further toward unconsciousness—but I fought it tooth and nail.
If I could just stay awake long enough for someone to find me, I would be okay.
The last time I opened my eyes, Regan sat next to me on the bed in nothing but undone jeans.
He’d forgone a glass in favor of sipping from the bottle of scotch.
Clicking and whooshing sounded throughout the room, and I searched for the source.
The simple act of looking around the empty space sent pain shooting through my temples.
A glint of light, and I found it: Regan’s vintage Italian stiletto knife. It had been his grandfather’s, and was his prize possession.
My breathing hitched, capturing Regan’s attention.
He set the bottle of scotch on the floor.
A chill ran down my spine. The most sinister sneer I’d ever seen spread across his face as he sat up, throwing one leg over me.
The knife spun around in his hand. With every rotation, the blade reflected the moonlight.
It was the brightest thing I’d seen in days.
Pressure, and the stiletto was pressed against my carotid.
I tried my best to kick him off me, but he was too strong.
He leaned over, making sure I felt his laugh vibrate my cheek.
“There’s no way you’re getting out of this in your state, baby boy,” he growled.
He ground his hips into mine, pinning me in place. I cried out in pain.
Regan continued to trace the blade over my neck.
The sharp tip painted a path from my ear, down to my collarbone and back again.
Over and over, more pressure each time. I closed my eyes tight and gritted my teeth in an attempt to stifle my screams, but that only resulted in them turning into pathetic whimpers.
The pressure grew more intense until my skin broke.
Tears fell from my eyes, as hot as the blood pooling beneath my head.
“It would be nothing for me to plunge this knife right into your jugular,” Regan threatened. “The question is: How long do I want to enjoy this?”
Something pinched as Regan bore down, but he was distracted by light through the bedroom window. Were those… headlights?
Doubtful. There was no stumbling upon this house by mistake.
Still, it was enough for Regan to shove off me and investigate. Whether it was from the head injuries or the blood loss I wasn’t sure, but I began to fade in and out of consciousness.
The sound of wood splintering came first, then the voices.
Did they sound familiar? I couldn’t have picked them out of a crowd if I tried.
There was so much shouting, and my head felt like it had been through a blender.
I fought like hell to stay awake, but it was so hard.
My eyelids grew heavy, and all I wanted to do was sleep.
Crashing and banging got closer, and I let my eyes shut.
Until the unmistakable pop of a gunshot had them flying open again.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Choking, gagging, and the voice I heard was unmistakable. “Do not come back here! Call for help and make sure he stays put.”
Dylan.
There was an argument, then the second voice retreated. My vision blurred at the sight of my little brother rushing into the room. A gentle hand pushed matted hair away from my face as I succumbed to the darkness.
“You’re okay, David…You’re okay…”